Recovery
by FanGirl67
Summary: Takes place post-Season 7 - I'm ignoring Season 8.  Buffy struggles with her mysteriously declining strength and a foreboding new threat, while Spike, unknown to her, sorts things out after arriving home from Hell. Eventually Spike/Buffy.
1. Chapter 1

In the weeks after he was gone, she buried herself in her work, hoping that if she submerged herself enough in the methodical tedium, she'd forget everything else. It had been easy, for a while, to live in denial. The Squad had pretty much replaced whatever semblance of a social life she'd had before, as sharpening stakes and barking orders melted into a messy patchwork of an existence. Buffy felt empty – so empty – but if she kept herself busy enough, sometimes she could forget the emptiness. It was hard to think of emotional trauma when five hundred stubborn, super-strong teenage girls were reliant on her.

Though the Potentials were now decidedly more kinetic, their superpowers every bit as strong as hers, they were young and inexperienced. Some of them had never even been face to face with a real vampire and only a few of them had gone up against anything remotely apocalyptic. Faced with the excruciating task of equipping them for the "real world," Buffy was surprised she had any time to wallow.

She hated it, wallowing. She hated feeling sorry for herself and she hated feeling so much loss for someone she had professed to detest for years. More than loss, though, she knew Spike had been wrong when he'd said she hadn't really loved him. She did. She loved him more than she'd ever imagined she could. She had no fucking clue what his reasoning was, and for a little while, she'd kinda hated him for whatever it was that made him deny her that day. But hate had started feeling suspiciously like agonizing loneliness, so she'd dropped that pretense and… continued to wallow.

"I'm like some lovesick high schooler," Buffy muttered to herself, knocking over the blurry photo that Dawn had snapped a couple of years ago - Spike sitting cross-legged in his crypt, drinking blood out of some horrendous yellow coffee mug he'd nicked from Giles that had "Kiss the Librarian" printed across it – so she didn't have to look at it anymore. Buffy didn't fully know why she'd framed it. It wasn't the only photo she had of Spike and it definitely wasn't the best, but there was something about it. It was so _him,_ so perfectly the way that he'd been. It made him seem closer and more real. If she had this, she could pretend, for a second that he was still out there somewhere, lounging around on stone tablets and screaming at his stupid soap operas like they meant something.

Buffy buried her head in her arms, choking out the sobs she'd been restraining for what felt like eternity. She had only cried a few times since his death because the crying had such bad associations. Crying meant mourning which meant letting go of denial and picking up something new and much harder to deal with: real grief. Crying for someone meant they were gone without a chance of coming back, and Buffy wasn't ready to think of anything that permanent. The battle in the high school basement still felt surreal two months later, but she could accept what had happened. She could accept the carnage and the guilt and horrifying fear of seeing Uber-Vamps go after the naïve young teenagers she'd so readily led towards death. Spike's death, however, felt like some nightmare manufactured purely to make her lose it, once and for all, and Buffy knew losing it might be on the agenda if she didn't do something soon. Something that worked.

She'd tried every kind of therapy she could come up with for herself, from pounding the shit out of the unassuming Slayers-to-be during training to replaying the situation in her head and imagining a million ways to change what had happened. Nothing made a difference; it was all self-destructive, whether it hurt physically or not. Physical blows were rarely the most painful, that was one thing Buffy had learned during her nearly eight years of slaying. Still, her go-to method was leaving a string of x's up her arms that she couldn't hide forever, and Buffy wasn't so much a fan of the long-sleeved tee.

A rough, urgent knock yanked Buffy out of her thoughts, also managing to knock her onto the floor. "Ow," she muttered, wondering why the Slayer strength hadn't shown its face. She'd been feeling weaker lately, and her reflexes were slower… she wasn't sure why, but it couldn't be good. "Come in!"

"Oh, Buffy, there you are." Giles stood in the doorway, shoving his glasses up his nose, and staring at her with confusion. "Willow was looking for you. The amulet-"

"The amulet?" Now it was Buffy's turn to stare in confusion. She'd assumed that it was buried in whatever was left with Sunnydale, with about a billion pounds of Uber-dust and an apparently state-of-the-art high school. Spike had still been wearing it when she'd gone. If the amulet had resurfaced, did that mean – no. Buffy refused to let herself think it through again.

"Yes, um, I believe it's been mailed here. Quite strange, but probably not of malicious intent -" Giles furrowed his brow worriedly, seeming to remember that she was still on the floor. "Are you all right?"

Buffy stumbled to her feet and fell into the chair, feeling shaky. "I'm fine, Giles. Where is Willow?"

Giles blinked. "She was with some of the new recruits, last I saw her. Are you absolutely sure you're all right?"

Buffy nodded and stood, trying to disguise how much effort it took. What was wrong with her? She'd been weak before, sure, but nothing like this. This _hurt._ It hurt to stand, to walk, to turn the door handle, even. Giles was gone so she didn't have to worry about putting up a good front, but the whole functioning like a human being thing was suddenly proving very difficult. Buffy grimaced as she staggered down the hallway and out the door into the chilly Scotland air, inhaling deeply. Maybe she'd just been stuck inside too much. Or maybe her work was taking a greater toll on her than she'd thought. Even slayers could get sick from stress, right?

Buffy was still trying to convince herself of this when her knees buckled and she tumbled onto the ground, blacking out.

He felt a fiery pain explode through his lungs, ripping him apart and throwing him into an entirely new dimension of pain. Hell hadn't been all that kind to him in the past, but he was getting the feeling that this was its way of letting him know he'd worn out his welcome. "Bloody good house guest I've been," he muttered, incoherently sputtering out something that could have been mistaken for an apology as he writhed and twisted under the pain, drowning in it. It felt like it was tearing his brain in half, searing into his nerves, blinding him until all he could see was an eclipsing, overwhelming black. Red swam through it, harsh and dark, like blood. Dried blood. Pretty blood. Little crimson light that won't go out, can't go out, little red fish swimming in a mercury sky, acid-drenched, thick and salty and wet and – solid?

Spike felt chapped, blistered lips close, and he licked them, tasting tangy, acidic blood in his mouth. This sensation was real, not imagined. The solid thing behind him was not another of Hell's oh-so-clever delusions, it was the ground. He was… alive? He groped at it wearily with his fingers, feeling stone under finger nails that had grown way too long. He stared dazedly at his hand, at the grit that clung to his palm. His skin looked chalky and pale, his fingers bony. But the paleness was sort of a regular thing for him, he thought, and the boniness probably had something to do with an eternity of torture that didn't exactly include snack breaks.

"Bloody Hell, I was driven mad in there." He whispered to himself, and felt how hoarse his throat was. The pain he felt now was amplified but not distorted – it was all real, all earthly, and it was manageable, if not pleasant. He'd welcome it with open arms after whatever had happened to him in there.

Details rushed back into his aching skull as though they'd been waiting to come home, the more intricate memories that Hell had knocked out of him hitting him hard, suddenly. Buffy.

The sodding slayer had gone and had him channel the power of the sun, of all things, like that was so smart for a bloody _vampire_ to do, without a single thought to his well being, to all that he'd done for her, she'd just gone on, whipping that hair around like she was in some warped, gory commercial, playing the hero while he was stuck in that all too familiar supporting role as martyr, haplessly pushing for good when bad was pushing so very hard right back at her – God, he loved her. He could never see her again, but he loved her. He couldn't do that to her, couldn't stomach the idea of a confrontation tainted by his death. Last she'd seen him, he was burning to a crisp and screaming at the top of his lungs; he didn't want to haunt her, didn't want to be her ghost. For reasons he couldn't even fully explain, Spike felt he'd be an intruder in her life now. Things had probably changed radically since he'd last seen her. She had probably changed radically. Without him there, pulling her into the shadows again and again, she'd be stronger and safer. Happier, too.

Spike shakily struggled to stand, but when he found he couldn't he settled for wrapping his arms around his knees, holding them to his chest. He didn't cry because he wasn't sad; he knew he should be blissfully happy, or maybe even just confused. He had life again, existence, and he hadn't done anything to particularly deserve it. He felt like something was wrong or something was missing, maybe, but something was making him on edge. Vampires were humans, but they were also animals, and after more than a hundred years of surviving on instinct, Spike knew to trust those prickly feelings that convened on the back of his neck.

"Anyone there?" He called experimentally, dissolving into coughs before the words had left his mouth. This was fucking wonderful. Whoever was there didn't even have to look at him to sense his vulnerability, they could hear it in that little-boy-lost tone he'd picked up somewhere between Hell and Hell on Earth.

The trees surrounding him felt like gaunt, imposing shadows and he was arrested by their sheer number. This was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Where the hell was he? What if this wasn't Earth after all? Spike pushed his hands against the ground again. No. This was definitely Earth. It felt like Earth, looked like it, even bloody smelled like it, it just wasn't any place he'd seen before.

Spike inhaled with a long, raspy sigh and climbed to his feet, wobbling as he stood. He felt a little stronger now, more like himself. The dirty, ragged duster that hung off his now skeletal body was shelter enough against the mild elements, and he figured a little walk through the woods couldn't do much harm. No Blair Witch or not so friendly ghost to be afraid of, just another tumble through Hell, and even that was nothing he hadn't seen before. Spike raked back the obstinate curls that had grown long during his absence and then shoved his hands in his pockets, doing his best imitation of a confident man who had nothing to fear, no one after him.

It was a parody instead of the real thing. It felt wrong. He felt wrong.

Something was still missing, and Spike knew, however much he wanted to deny it, what it was.


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy woke to find herself submerged in a nearly blinding white light, the vaguely familiar shapes of the Squad's makeshift infirmary looming over her like crudely shaped monsters. Everything felt sharp, angled, malicious, foreign. The sheer confusion of her situation made the oblivion of sleep seem more tempting than ever, and as it rushed back to her – Giles coming in, the amulet, going after Willow, blacking out – Buffy let out a sharp cry.

Hesitantly, she shifted one leg. It felt heavy and thick. The effortless elasticity she was used to feeling made this new sensation something of a shock. Her Slayer-strength was still on vacation, Buffy realized with dismay. But it was more than that; she was weaker than a regular human being. Buffy couldn't remember ever feeling like this before.

Whatever was doing this to her, whether it was a spell or the presence of some obscure chemical element, it had to end. She had too much responsibility to lie around in bed hypothesizing over her mysterious new condition. Fighting the urge to let her knees buckle and eyes close, Buffy stood on trembling legs and made her way towards the door, blinking rapidly so as not to be overwhelmed by the light. It wasn't as imposing now, but the glare still hurt. She hated this, this weakness.

Weakness was not something Buffy had to deal with anymore, ever. The most doomed romantic relationships ever, some seriously judgey friends, around a thousand ancient tomes predicting how and when she'd meet her untimely ending, yeah. But not physical weakness. She took her strength for granted. As she stumbled to the ground and worked to push herself up again, Buffy shuddered at how dangerous this weakness could be, especially given her state of mind.

"Buff, are you awake?" Xander called from the other side of the door, suddenly. Apparently her tripping routine hadn't been too stealthy.

"I'm here!" Buffy leaned on the door knob. Xander pulled it open and grinned, evidently satisfied with her physical condition.

"You look a lot less terrible than you did yesterday." He said brightly.

"Thanks for the honesty." Buffy raised an eyebrow. He sounded like Anya when he said things like that, and the profound effect she'd clearly had on him made Buffy miss the ex-demon, if only a little. "Just out of curiosity, just how terrible was I yesterday?"

"Um…" Xander seemed to be weighing how blunt he should be. "Kinda corpseish. But all things considered…"

"What things, exactly?" Buffy demanded urgently. "Something's messing with me, and I don't think the Watcher's Council is really in the position to make with the magical-Roofies anymore, since they're kinda obliterated by dark agents of the First, so what the hell is it?"

"Drawing up a list of your enemies is probably not a very good use of time," Xander considered. "But does anyone in particular want you dead right now? I mean, besides the usual suspects."

Buffy thought. There was no one, no outstanding threats made in a while. They'd done an outstanding job of keeping the Squad a secret, down to the rural Scottish highlands location that demons surprisingly didn't seem all that drawn to. She hadn't heard anything from her contacts, Giles hadn't seemed too worried over anything… she drew a total blank. "Sorry, but things have been eerily quiet around here, lately. No threats to speak of."

"Anything change?" He said thoughtfully. "With you, I mean. Maybe it's not a malicious undead type thing, it's just a Buffy having problems type thing."

"I do not have problems, Xander!" She retorted defensively. To tell the truth, Buffy had been wondering the same thing, but to be stricken down by something as clumsy and useless as a disease couldn't even fully register for her. She was a Slayer. In some people's eyes, _The_ Slayer. Slayers didn't get taken down by anything so run of the mill as a human condition. Or so the lore said. In all of the years she'd had this gig, all of the threats to her life that she'd faced, nothing had forced her into anything less than a hero's death. All powerful, ancient forces of evil that emerged from under the Earth with the intent of swallowing up humanity, sure. But not this. What was her gravestone going to say? "All powerful vampire slayer, saved the world a lot, battled it out with the worst of the worst, died from cancer?" No. She couldn't go that way.

"Didn't say you did." Xander muttered, backing off. Buffy knew the hostility was coming off her in waves, probably making her friend incredibly uneasy – not that she could have hurt him at all, given her current circumstances – but she couldn't get over it.

"Is Buffy awake?" Willow poked her head through the door eagerly, joining Xander in front of her.

"Was everyone just sitting around waiting for me to wake up?" Buffy asked, confused and a little worried that neither of her two best friends were out with the new Slayers. Short staffed was a generous way to describe their operation and with so many threats constantly present, they couldn't afford to take risks.

"Oh, come on, Buffy, we were worried! You were doing the comatosey thing and – Oh, I have news for you! The amulet turned up when they were excavating Sunnydale and I called about it and used that authoritative, Scary Willow voice, you know the one? And they sent it to us."

"Scary Willow?" Buffy repeatedly slowly, unable to comprehend. "What's it mean, having the amulet back? Does it still… do anything?"

"Well, that's the part we don't know yet." Willow said. "Yesterday morning, Dawn and I tried this spell to make it 'show its power,' which was supposed to help us determine whether it still had any magic in it, but something crazy happened and it knocked us against the wall and started glowing and fell from the desk onto the floor."

Buffy nodded in understanding. It was risky to mess with that stuff, she knew, and while she was grateful to have a powerful witch like Willow by her side, she wished her friend was less reckless. Especially when her teenaged sister was involved. Dawn was still very much an amateur and that amulet had been powerful beyond almost anything Buffy had experienced. "So I'm guessing this was an inconclusive result?"

"Yeah. We still don't know." Willow said, disappointed. "Giles is all with the research now, though, and he's even taken to that newfangled thing we call the Internet."

"Must be serious, then." Buffy was genuinely alarmed. In all of the years she'd known Giles, she'd found him to be absolutely repelled by anything remotely close to what could be considered modern technology. "Do you think it could be dangerous?"

"To us? Not so much." Willow smiled, "Besides, no one's putting it on, so it's probably pretty dormant, but I think it's probably one of those things we can't let fall into the wrong hands."

"Otherwise known as the entire demon population and a good chunk of the human one?" Buffy sighed, already tired. "Protecting stuff is nothing new, luckily, but thanks for the updates. Really."

"I'm guessing you're more curious about the blacking out portion of the show, though." Willow said knowingly. Xander, who had busied himself with changing the sheets on the bed, looked up with surprise. Was there something they weren't saying? Something they were keeping from her? Buffy chided herself for being so paranoid but had to admit there was definitely something going on there.

"Well, yeah." Buffy admitted. "Not to be self-centered beyond belief, and I did really want to know about the amulet, but I seem to be missing my Slayer Strength."

Spike shoved the spindly pine branches aside, impatient with the thick foliage that surrounded him. Finally, the ambiguity of this sodding place, would fade into reality, where he wasn't wondering around a wood in confusion like a lost child.

A few parked cars ornamented the quiet, empty street, but the road had a vaguely foreign look to it, the cars were different, older. Spike squinted, trying to understand what he was seeing. He'd never been one for lengthy international vacations, much as Dru had liked them. It was always so disconcerting to play by someone else's societal rules. Overwhelming, too. He'd probably been everywhere there was to go in Europe and Asia, and he had hazy memories of streets that looked something like this, but the letters on the storefronts and street signs were English ones, making the place even more of a mystery. _Everyone_ spoke English now, probably wouldn't make a difference if he went to bloody Egypt, there'd be English!

Spike sighed irritably and fumbled in his duster's back pocket for a lighter and cigarettes. He didn't know if he'd remembered to stick them in there on Apocalypse Eve, which felt like light-years ago now. It was just as well, he didn't particularly want to relive any of that, besides…

Oh, bloody Hell. She'd said she loved him, choked it out in a sob, so desperate and so vulnerable, and he'd thrown it back in her face. He hadn't let himself think of that. When it had happened, he'd been so concerned with getting her out of there alive, giving her the chance to be alive and move on and not love him anymore. He'd denied it because it hurt so much to be burning alive when the one thing he'd wanted more than anything happened, he couldn't deal with the irony.

"Never been good with that poetic stuff," Spike said lightly to himself, forcing himself to snap out of it and stepping out of the brush to traverse the road. He was now fairly confident that this was something Northern and decidedly European, which meant all sorts of complications, like having to speak the language and communicate and pretend he was a regular human being without the excuse of being a foreigner. Couldn't do the pillage and plunder bit anymore, that was for sure, being deprived of both his soullessness and his desire for carnage.

Glancing warily towards the skyline, which was threatening him with the milky first light of dawn, Spike made his way towards an unceremonious building marked, simply, "Inn." It seemed promising enough, though there was the matter of money, which he didn't have. Spike paused in the door way, suddenly worried – he had money, he had enough money to buy the bloody inn, but it was locked uselessly away in the crypt he suspected was now destroyed in Sunnydale.

"Should never have put on that amulet. Sodding world can take care of itself." Struck with a new idea, Spike wrestled for the expensive watch he humored himself by wearing. So it'd stayed on through the hellfire and brim stone, had it? Impressive. The man who he'd ripped it off of had good taste, he thought, somewhat cynically. Then, with more remorse, as he remembered that he'd reduced that man, with his expensive watch and leather wallet and home and family and life, into a drained corpse.

"I want a room." Spike said confidently, planting himself assertively in front of the counter.

"Now?" The man stared in confusion. "It's 5am."

"I know." Spike sighed in irritation. "Will this be enough?" He shoved the watch onto the counter. "You can tell your guests how irregular their check ins are with more precision," he muttered under his breath, knowing it probably wasn't wise to patronize the nice man who was going to ensure that he wasn't reduced to dust and ashes.

The man stared blankly at it, then shrugged, held the watch thoughtfully between two fingers, and put a key card over the counter. "For one night."

Spike grinned, knowing his paltry attempt at payment shouldn't have worked. "That watch has been through Hell," he informed the manager, "You take good care of it. You hear me?"

Making his way up the stairs, Spike realized he hadn't even asked what country he was in. He was really losing his touch.


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy wobbled to the crest of the hill, standing over the dozens of Slayers-In-Training that had gathered for that morning's grueling series of workouts. Any other morning, she would have been working beside them, but today it felt like too much to stand up for more than a few minutes. Intense, static pulses swam before her eyes and she blinked them out, shuddering at the loss of sight. She'd rejected Willow's offer of a wheelchair earlier that morning, determined not to be so blatantly weak in front of the new recruits. Now, Buffy regretted it – at least with a wheel chair, she wouldn't be struggling to stay off of the ground. The world tilted before her, and she staggered back, her voice cracking as she tried to speak.

"Patrol assignments for tonight are –" Suddenly, Buffy felt herself plummet forward, smashing into the hill. The pulses flickered in her stinging retinas, and as she felt the full impact of her fall, Buffy blacked out again.

* * *

_The atmosphere was thick and disjointed, red and golds shrieking across a subdued gray sky that threatened to crack open and let all Hell pour through. Thunder pulsed to a heated, electric beat, marking each step she took. Slowly, unwillingly, she felt her feet beat into the earth, driving her forward. She couldn't control herself, couldn't stop. Her breaths came raggedly into her throat, hoarse and raw._

_Before her, a cave was carved into a seemingly endless fortress of rock, some sort of mountain range that looked almost otherworldly under the dusky scarlet light. Buffy stumbled into it, collapsing against the rough, crooked walls and breathing heavily as a noxious gas swam through the air, meeting her lungs in a fatal kiss. It was dark, too dark, and Buffy could no longer see what was happening, but she could feel it. It was enveloping her and pulling her inside itself, cutting off her air and depriving her bleeding throat of the oxygen it so desperately needed. Futilely, she tried to scream, but found no air with which to do so._

_"The light has pulled you apart, hasn't it, pet?" The scornful London accent that she had both hated and loved in the past, so mocking, scathing, attacked her ears in a sudden mob of sound. "And now you're in the dark." There were hands on her shoulders, yanking her towards a shallow impression in the ground that her feet stumbled on. She had no grace and no strength, just flimsy, achingly human limbs and they failed her time and time again. Crying out, she slid to the earth and let her attacker lash out at her back, drawing blood that fell in tiny rivers down her spine._

Buffy shook with sobs. She was tangled in a sweaty, ragged bundle of sheets that refused to release its grip on her. The dream… it had felt so real.

"No, not dream." She mentally corrected herself. She knew enough now not to confuse a dream with a vision, and this one had definitely been of the vision-type. Between the cryptic metaphors, alternative universe feel and disturbing appearance of someone who'd died in a pretty hugely significant way, there was nothing subconscious about this. The vision meant something. If she'd been in the mood for world savage at this hour, she'd have gone to Giles. There was a tense urgency in this vision, and she got the feeling that something – maybe a lot of somethings – weighed on it.

It'd have to wait until morning, though. She felt queasy and broken, like a hammer had been driven through her skull. Buffy raked her fingers through her tangled hair, hating the vaguely dehumanizing sensation of being trapped beneath her sheets. Night was a curse now, a dreaded series of hours when there was nothing to break the suffering of thinking and feeling.

It wasn't supposed to be that way. Nights were always more solace than suffering for Slayers, simply because they were the one time when nothing had to be hidden. Incredible muscular ability didn't have to be disguised as lucky slipups, impressive speed could be channeled instead of hidden. Sure, there was the whole dusting of vampires business, but that was something she hardly thought of anymore. Buffy had been through too much to worry herself over a couple of undeads with bumpy foreheads; most of the fledglings wanted nothing more than a good spar, anyway. If she hadn't been feeling so shitty, she might have gone out to give it to them, but at present, she definitely wasn't up to it. Maybe that's why the night had started feeling like such a burden. "Never would have pegged lack of slayage as a mood crasher," Buffy muttered to herself, hating how lucid she felt. The vision still disturbed her, and she'd been counting on her exhaustion to drag her back down into the darker, gentler tones of real sleep. Sleep without apocalyptic visions.

Sleep without Spike's mocking accent, playing antagonist, something he'd never really done, even all of those years ago when he and Drusilla had come roaring into town, intent upon making it their own. She'd been afraid of him sometimes, sure, but his malice had always translated as slightly cartoonish; he liked being bad, he was capable of being bad, but when it came to the final punch, he always pulled it. He was too human for real evil. Nothing like the vision's crass parody of Spike. She shivered as she thought of how ruthlessly his fingernails had raked over her flesh, drawing blood and liking the pain it gave her, craving it. How he had shoved her into the dirt, as if trying to bury her alive.

Buffy sobbed noiselessly to herself until her body reached a compromise and let her doze, on the brink of lucidity but able to escape the prison of thought she had created. Her muscles relaxed, and slowly, she found something like peace.

* * *

With nightfall's merciful arrival, Spike left his rented room, determined to get somewhere. He had his life back! He shouldn't waste it holing up in some halfassed little shack, stripping himself of his valuables for room and board. He was done with that scene. The blurry little TV in his room had, with some reluctance, informed him that he was in Scotland and it was approximately two months since D-Day itself. Spike had smirked at that; two months in Hell, that was it. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought that was something like karmic justice. Eight weeks was nothing to scoff at, sure, but it was a hell of a lot easier to stomach than the eternity he heard so much about. Get a soul, put on an ugly necklace, save the world, and get out of jail free, was that how it worked?

"Thanks for the stay, mate." He slapped the key card down in front of the manager, whose eyes barely flickered over it with a cursory glance, and slammed open the doors with a confident force. He didn't have anything more than vague memories of what Scotland looked like or how to get around the streets, but he had picked up something else, that meant more to him than anything else he could have sensed here: The Slayer.

She was here. In sodding Scotland. Beautiful Scotland. He didn't know how close she was or why he could sense her at anything more than a range of a few feet, but he didn't care. He'd been tracking things – and people, of course – since he was sired. He wasn't new to the game. Follow the scent, notice the little things, snag invites into the right houses, and he'd have her in his arms again in days. Hours, maybe.

If she wanted him, that was. Spike felt uncertainty curl up his spine, tingling uncomfortably as he continued to walk down the road. Who said the Slayer had any interest in him, still? The expression on her face, hand still clasped in his burning one, holding onto him with a quiet desperation, had wounded him more deeply than any of the things she'd said or done to him in the past few years, because it was something he had done to her. He was the antagonist. He'd done wrong. He had never wanted to hurt her, and now his callousness might have wrecked his chances with her.

It was a chance he'd have to take. Lifting his face to the air, Spike inhaled. She was close, he knew, not more than twenty or thirty miles away, and he'd walk all bloody night and risk frying to a crisp in the morning if it meant seeing her. He didn't care about the technical impossibilities of covering so much distance, didn't care about much of anything anymore; been through Hell and back was no longer just an expression. It was his reality. A reality he liked more as a brag-worthy past than as a present, of course, but that's how all of the best ones were. The experience had left him feeling more restless, at any rate, and more desperate than he'd ever been to see her.

Near what he judged to be six in the morning, as the sun stealthily stole over the hills behind him, threatening to unleash its smoky rage, her scent was so close he could feel it burning into his skin. She was there, close, and he had to get in somehow, before the sun came up any further. Sighing in frustration, Spike considered the squat white buildings before him, a flat series of identical shapes that could have housed any number of things or people. If he could concentrate, whittle out the distractions and think… shutting his eyes and pushing his hands into fists, he inhaled deeply, the predatory synapses that still played at dominating his brain firing readily. That was what his demon was made for, programmed after.

"Buffy." He whispered, and decisively made his way towards the smallest of the buildings, his fingers brushing against the newly painted wood as he considered the door. Unless the other residents of this thing were early risers – he knew she wasn't – he probably wasn't going to win himself an invite in by knocking on the front door. Spike would have to employ more… elaborate tactics.

Slinking towards the windows, he pushed his face against the first, thankful for his ability to see in the dark. No Buffy. Filing cabinets and what looked like a desk. Spike sighed in disgust and went on, finding a second and then a third fruitless window. This was useless, entirely useless, he'd never find her before dawn at this – he paused, in front of the back window. What might have been an infirmary, or some sort of medical room, housed a small figure who was deeply entangled in a series of unmatched blankets.

He let himself smile, really smile, captivated by her. Reverently, almost reluctantly, he raised his fist to the window and gave it an experimental knock. She shifted a little, but didn't wake. Spike pounded harder, using both fists, but she refused to move. The glass must be thick, he thought, nervous. Dawn was approaching fast and he didn't have time to waste. He'd have to find somewhere to take shelter in a hurry if she didn't open up.

Inspiration struck when he paused, staring down at the earth below his feet. A rounded rock, a little larger than his palm, lay on the ground, only feet away. "Idiot," he sighed to himself, disgusted, and moved to pick it up. Taking a deep breath, needing so desperately for it to work, Spike flung the rock at her window.

Buffy woke with a start, her face white and drawn. She looked so pale, so gaunt. Spike was startled, but euphoric to see her, real, before him. She moved to untangle herself, tripping as she made her way towards the window, collapsing before she reached it, and then lifting herself off the ground.

And she was there, cranking it open, pushing up the glass with more effort than he would have thought necessary for her. She didn't say anything, didn't have to, the look on her face was enough to sate him until the end of the world – maybe two ends of the world.

"Buffy." He whispered.

"Come in." She said, her voice barely there.

He clawed through the screen, crouched as he moved under the opened window and fell onto the floor below, shaky with the exhilaration of it.

"You're here." She extended a hand to him, and he took it but lifted himself up.

"It certainly looks that way."

"But you were – "

"Not anymore."

* * *

Ha, I know, I'm really very mean, cutting it off that way. But at least I stopped with the not seeing each other part, right? Yeah? And some semblance of plot?


End file.
